


Josten's Eight

by moonix



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banter, Breaking Up & Making Up, Established Relationship, Flirting, Found Family, Gen, Heist, Heist husbands, M/M, Ocean's eight au, Revenge, Trans Male Character, Trans Neil Josten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: In which Neil and his merry band of misfits steal a shitload of jewels, as a treat.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 47
Kudos: 508





	Josten's Eight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exybee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exybee/gifts).



> Let me tell you, this was a ton of fun to write. I loved the idea of conman Neil and his heist husband robbing rich people, but I also wanted to keep some of the original spirit of the movie, so the crew is mostly ladies - yay! As is often the case, you can thank allforthebee for the fact that this fic exists; she is a terrible enabler and I can never resist her when she asks me to write something for her.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta and sensitivity readers, capncrystal, sm-pcnlr and crumplelush, your input was super helpful and you all helped make this story better!
> 
> If you are in the mood for a soundtrack to this fic, I made a Spotify playlist to go along with it: [clickety click here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5WBno1MJHZGxCcdCzxfKxz?si=fuzj84mCTPK_lKVsTOiMrA)!
> 
> I don't think there are any big warnings for this, just a brief mention of Neil's time in prison and Riko being a dick off-screen.

Message from Jailbird:

_Where is the fking cemetery? 12 pm?_

Andrew breathes out slowly. The night air circles his exposed fingers like tight iron bands. The noise of the club is a tangible thing lurking just beyond his shoulder, radiating heat and the smell of cheap booze. Between peeling paint, reruns of Judge Judy and lacing vodka with water he hasn’t had much time to think about Neil Josten, but he still has his number saved, because apparently somewhere deep down he’s a pathetic idiot who can’t make a clean cut when it matters.

“Missed you too, asshole,” he mutters, before deleting the message and tucking the phone back into his pocket.

He lights a cigarette and blows a stream of smoke and vintage anger into the breeze. It sits on his tongue like loose change, ready to spill out. He’s going to have to check his pockets for holes. Things have become threadbare over the last five years, including but not limited to Andrew’s bank account.

He slips the phone back out and stares at the message again, tapping his finger against the screen. It vibrates with a second incoming message and Andrew’s cigarette drips to the ground unfinished.

Message from Jailbird:

_Yes or no??_

One of his bouncers pushes his way past, nodding at Andrew. Andrew nods back and waits until he’s disappeared into the thick of the dancing crowd inside before replying.

_Fuck off._

The answer is instantaneous, as if Neil knew what he was going to say and typed out his response in advance.

Message from Jailbird:

_See u tomorrow then_

* * *

It’s not quite raining when Andrew pulls up to the cemetery the next day at precisely 12:05 pm, but it’s close. Not even Neil can engineer the weather, Andrew thinks, but—again—it’s close. The clouds hang low, more gristle than meat, and the streets are wet and polished to a gleam. It’s the kind of day that they used to spend in bed or, on more memorable occasions, in the bathtub; tangled up in each other like headphones stuffed into in a jacket pocket. Andrew still has a clear memory of Neil scooping up a handful of foam and blowing it in Andrew’s face, loose and happy and high off their latest scheme.

Andrew pushes the heel of his hand against the car horn and lets it sing out a warning. He catches a glimpse of Stuart swathed in silk and fur as he exits the mausoleum where the ashes of Neil’s mother sit in a marble urn. Behind him a small figure emerges, eyes immediately zeroing in on Andrew’s car, unerring like a compass needle. That’s what it used to be like with them: always aware of where the other was in any given situation.

He tightens his hands around the wheel until it creaks, then punches the horn again. Neil looks amused as he saunters up, tosses a suitcase with someone else’s luggage tag into the back and slides into the passenger seat.

“I knew you’d come,” he says, and the clawed grip of his absence finally loosens around Andrew’s ribcage for the first time in five years.

He’s kidding himself, of course. Neil’s been gone longer than that. But he’s not going to think about that-

He peels out of the cemetery and aims for the only place he can stomach taking Neil right now.

“Is she really dead, then?” he asks, because dead mothers make for good small-talk.

“Mary? Who knows. Here,” Neil says wryly, pulling something out of his pocket and tossing it in Andrew’s lap. “Got you a gift.”

Andrew glances down at the shiny coil of fabric. It’s a pale gold silk tie with a subtle herringbone pattern and a tiny gold tie pin in the shape of a bee. He doesn’t ask how Neil stole it.

“I don’t want it,” he says instead, keeping his hands on the wheel. Drizzle licks at the windshield, droplets careening wildly sideways as he takes a turn too fast.

“Too bad,” Neil hums. “I don’t think I can return it.”

“Sure you can,” Andrew points out. “Though your parole officer might not be so happy to hear you relapsed already.”

Neil shrugs and looks out the window.

“Why are you here? More shoplifting?” Andrew asks. He pulls the car down a dirt road and hits the brakes, coming to an abrupt stop seconds before they hit the chain-link fence lumbering ahead.

“Picturesque,” Neil remarks, gesturing loosely at the barren wasteland around them. “Not what I imagined for our grand reunion, but okay.”

“Grand reunion?”

“It’s not shoplifting,” Neil says, gazing steadily at him. “Think bigger.”

Andrew resists the urge to make a dick joke, but Neil can read him like an open book. His laugh is filthy and low and the sound zings down Andrew’s spine like an electric current.

“Much, much bigger,” he says.

“I hate when you do this,” Andrew mutters, breaking the suspended saliva string of their gazes.

“Do what?”

“Make me guess,” Andrew says. “Make me interested, and then think that because you got me riled up I want to do it.”

“Don’t you wanna do things you’re interested in?”

“I want to do hot guys, doesn’t mean I’m interested in them.”

Neil shrugs. Not because he doesn’t care what Andrew does, but because he knows with an unshakeable certainty that given the choice between all the other hot guys in the world and Neil, Andrew would always choose Neil.

“Fine. It’s jewels,” he says. “Spectacular, great, big, blingy, big old Liz Taylor jewels locked in a vault fifty feet underground.”

“You said big twice.”

“I’ve said it more than twice and you know it,” Neil smirks. “Have I ever been wrong?”

Andrew ignores him.

“How do we get them out?” he asks.

Neil’s smile melts like candle wax and Andrew itches to dip his fingers into it.

“We’re gonna make it so they serve them to us on a silver platter,” Neil says. “Trust me, this time we’re all going to be rich.”

“All?” Andrew asks. “How many?”

Neil slides him a look like he already knows he’s won.

“Eight,” he says.

* * *

“Nice place.”

“Try heating it,” Andrew grumbles and dumps his jacket on the pool table. He had Erik convert the old warehouse for him a couple of years ago because the shoebox apartment he’d shared with Neil suddenly felt crowded, stuffed to the brim with Neil’s absence. Now he’s left with leaky pipes, draughty windows and more rooms than he knows what to do with, but at least it’s all his.

“Your stuff is upstairs,” Andrew tells him. “I borrowed some of it, since I figured you weren’t using it.”

“I’d have thought you’d have burned it all,” Neil grins. He’s up the stairs before Andrew can gather enough spit to reply and Andrew can hear him walking around, sticking his curious fingers into every nook and crevice, cluttering up his space.

The water cuts on. Andrew realises Neil is running himself a bath and has to swallow down the sour heartburn of old memories regurgitated. A t-shirt and a single sock sail down the stairs and crumple on the floor. Andrew makes a wide berth around them, bangs a few cupboards and makes coffee, but pours Neil’s down the drain out of habit. He’s never mastered the art of making coffee for one. He’s not ready to be two again.

“I’m hungry. Let’s order Chinese,” Neil’s voice floats down the stairs. He must have left the bathroom door open, though the place isn’t exactly soundproof as is.

“Order it yourself,” Andrew says. He throws himself down on the dilapidated couch that stands pride of place in the centre of the ground floor. There’s a faint splashing noise from the bathroom, followed by a burbly hum.

“I saw Riko,” Neil says conversationally. There’s a pause in the splashing as he waits for Andrew’s reaction. Andrew takes a sip of his scalding hot coffee and picks up a plastic white rabbit mask from the pile of debris on the coffee table. Who even knows what that was for—a bank robbery? Theme night at the club? Easter with his nieces? He snorts and tosses it aside.

“And did Riko see you, too?” he finally asks.

“Sure did. He especially admired my shiv.”

Andrew coughs in startled amusement and tips his feet against the table. Picks the mask back up and rests it on his face.

“Did you stab him?”

“About a million times,” Neil says. “In my dreams. No, I settled for his coat button as a down payment.”

“Sure,” Andrew says, muffled through the rabbit mask.

“I want Lake Tung Ting shrimp,” Neil sighs. “And prawn crackers.”

“You’re disgusting,” Andrew informs him. He’d point out that shrimp are the cockroaches of the oceans, but Andrew has seen Neil eat worse. “You never even eat the vegetables.”

“That’s what I have you for.”

The water cuts on again, drowning out any potential retorts. Andrew slips his phone out of his pocket and calls their old delivery place before remembering they got shut down for health and safety violations last year. He dials a different one instead, the one he’s been using when he wants curry but doesn’t want to be reminded of Neil, fully aware that he’s going to ruin it with this.

When the food arrives Neil comes downstairs with pruny fingers, wrapped in Andrew’s bathrobe. They sit on the floor and eat, and Neil doesn’t tell Andrew about prison, and Andrew doesn’t tell Neil about the phantom pain of waking up without him day after day after damn day.

It’s almost easy. It’s almost like old times.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Neil says, empty Styrofoam containers littering the ground between them.

Andrew stacks them neatly, first the bigger ones, then nestling the smaller ones inside. He thinks about spooning and shoves the whole lot into the overflowing trash.

When he turns around, Neil has shed his bathrobe and is picking through a heap of discarded clothes on the armchair Andrew has been doing his best to bury and forget.

“Those clothes are there for a reason,” he remarks as Neil uncovers a patch of furry, hideously orange upholstery. Neil, who’s never been able to not pick at a scab, pushes the whole pile to the floor and reveals the hidden monstrosity underneath.

“I love it,” he says, throwing himself into the armchair with gusto. He’s still naked, and Andrew is trying not to look.

“Thought you wanted to go for a walk.”

“Hmm,” Neil says, eyes flashing with amusement like the blade of a butter knife. “Or a ride.”

Andrew picks up a random assortment of clothes and shoves it at him.

“Get dressed.”

* * *

They go to the Met.

Andrew looks at Neil, because Neil never does anything without a reason, and Neil smiles like a debauched angel and pulls him into a coffee shop with a view of the museum. He orders the apple pie for Andrew without asking what he wants and snags a table by the window for them. Sunlight glints off the museum building with mischief in the corner of its mouth.

“It’s a museum,” Andrew says flatly.

“It’s so much more than that.”

Andrew shakes his head. “It’s not like robbing a liquor store. We can’t just…”

“We can,” Neil says. Always so sure of himself. “And we will. That’s the beauty of it. I had five years to perfect it, got myself put in solitary confinement so I could really hear myself think. I went through it from every angle. By the time I was out on parole it was running like clockwork. And you were there with me, every step of the way.”

“Is this a proposal?” Andrew asks, sticking a piece of his apple pie in his mouth. The crust is buttery soft, flaking apart under his tongue, and the apples are warm, syrupy and swaddled in cinnamon. It’s perfect.

He hates it.

“Aw baby, I don’t have a diamond yet,” Neil smirks. “Here, try this.”

He holds up a forkful of his blueberry cobbler. Andrew stares him down.

“Come on, open up,” Neil murmurs, teasing the bite in front of Andrew’s mouth. It’s crisp and crackly on top and jammy on the bottom, the crust stained dark purple from the berries. Andrew takes it and Neil hums, pleased.

“It’s gonna be fun,” he says. “I promise.”

“You said that about the bingo,” Andrew reminds him. Neil waves him off.

“Bingo was forever ago. Will you ever stop holding that against me?”

“Never.”

“Anyway, this is different. Tell me you’re in. I need my partner to pull this off.”

“I’m not your partner,” Andrew says, tossing his napkin down.

Neil smiles, slow and sure and brilliant like a hundred carats.

“Yet,” he says.

* * *

They go to the press conference with Allison Reynolds, held in the foyer of the Met. Her skin is whiter than the marble around her and she wears a low-cut dress the colour of crushed rubies with matching lipstick and fingernails, looking more like a piece of art than an actual alive person.

As she answers questions about the upcoming Met gala, Neil explains in fits and whispers what he’s come up with. Allison Reynolds is this year’s big name celebrity who will be hosting the gala, and Neil intends to use her as a mule for the diamonds they’re going to steal.

“Those poor things,” Neil croons, lips brushing against the shell of Andrew’s ear. “Locked up in a vault for fifty years. They need sunlight, Andrew. Fresh air.”

His mouth dips down to the skin just underneath Andrew’s ear and it takes all of Andrew’s willpower to stay still.

Across the room, Reynolds flashes a lightbulb smile at the second reporter to ask who’s going to be designing her dress.

“I don’t know yet,” she reiterates, her voice a sweet cocktail of polite condescension, the boozy punch of it softened by sugar and smiles. “But as soon as I do, you’ll be the very first person I tell.”

Neil watches her with smug satisfaction. Andrew can tell he likes her; he always had a soft spot for the firebrands, the rebels and troublemakers, restless spirits after his own heart.

Andrew doesn’t know where he himself fits in there—he’s more of a cryptid, he thinks, wandering the outskirts of society and looking in at the lights and the noise with a mix of revulsion and carefully concealed longing.

He tucks it back underneath a mental rabbit mask and follows Neil home, where they look through magazines and portfolios, debating the merits of different designers over a glass of red wine. Some old record that Neil unearthed is crooning in the background and Neil has one foot propped in Andrew’s lap, the other tucked underneath him. He’s wearing Andrew’s ancient, threadbare Panic! At The Disco t-shirt and sinfully tight skinny jeans with ripped knees, and Andrew can’t resist poking his fingers through the holes from time to time.

“Interesting style,” Neil says, holding up a glossy two-page spread.

“Bee has to approve them first,” Andrew reminds him, leafing aimlessly through an ancient issue of Vogue. Bee is their sponsor; without her money, they can’t do anything.

They could steal it, of course, but the gala is in four weeks and they don’t have time for another big con so soon before the next.

“That won’t be a problem,” Neil says, flipping over a different magazine and tapping the photo. “Kayleigh Day. Old acquaintance of Dobson’s. Used to be a big name in fashion, but her latest collection didn’t take off. She owes the IRS five million dollars.”

Andrew scans the accompanying article and nudges Neil’s leg off his lap.

“How do we find her?”

* * *

They find her, as it turns out, backstage at her most recent fashion show, sitting on the floor and eating Nutella out of a jar with mascara streaking dramatically down her face.

“Congratulations,” Andrew tells her, even though her show was a trainwreck. Or a plane wreck, more accurately, seeing as the outfits resembled stewardess uniforms from the sixties more than anything else.

“Who are you?” she greets them, listlessly swishing her Nutella spoon at them.

“Fans,” Neil says earnestly and steps closer. “Big fans.”

“Oh,” Kayleigh hiccups, and stuffs another spoonful of Nutella in her mouth. Neil aims a carefully curated selection of vague compliments at her and she sniffs and holds up her phone, letting them scroll through a recent blog post that calls her outdated and stuffy.

“ _Like taking a tour of your grandmother’s closet_ ,” she quotes, trailing off into an agonised whimper.

“That’s not very nice,” Andrew says. Kayleigh shakes her head, then her face creases up and more tears leak out over her mascara-smeared cheeks.

“How did I get here?”

“You spent eighteen million dollars in two years and bought two house boats on the Seine,” Neil offers placidly, crouching beside her.

“I’m old, and irrelevant, and I’m going to prison, and then I’m going to be really, really poor,” Kayleigh sobs.

“Not necessarily,” Andrew says. Kayleigh pauses, pressing a lacy handkerchief to her mouth.

“Are you journalists?” she asks sharply, squinting up at them.

“Absolutely not,” Andrew and Neil chorus.

* * *

“Good boobs,” Kayleigh says approvingly, examining a picture of Allison Reynolds. “Eyes like bambi. She could wear almost anything.”

“This, for example,” Neil says. He pulls out a picture of a heavy diamond necklace and taps it with his finger.

“It’s called the Toussaint,” Andrew provides on cue. “Named for Jeanne Toussaint, Cartier’s director of jewellery from ’33 to ’68. It’s over six pounds of diamonds and it’s been in a vault for fifty years.”

“They might let it out,” Neil adds, “for her.”

Kayleigh regards them with wide eyes.

“Allison Reynolds is hosting the Met gala this year. The theme for the ball is European royalty, the crown jewels are going to be a featured element. We think this would be an excellent opportunity for the Toussaint to make its first public appearance in decades,” Andrew explains.

Kayleigh looks back down at the picture and traces it with her hand.

“Must be worth quite a lot,” she whispers.

“A hundred and fifty million, give or take,” Neil says cheerfully.

* * *

Alvarez is easy to find. She still works at her parents’ jewellery shop, still gets in trouble for sassing customers who want to argue carats with her. Her sister has recently married, pictures of her in traditional wedding garb are splashed all over the walls of the shop.

“Must be tiring,” Andrew says idly, picking at his sandwich.

“You’ve no idea,” Alvarez groans. “So, what do you want?”

“We have a job for you,” Neil says, face bland under his sunglasses. It’s lunch hour and the sidewalks are packed with people, letting their conversation seep into the cracks unheard.

“You want to move something through the shop?” Alvarez asks dubiously.

“No,” Neil says. “How long would it take you to make seven pieces of jewellery if the stones were already cut?”

“Probably five or six hours.”

“How long if we told you that you didn’t have to live with your mother anymore?” Andrew adds.

Alvarez perks up.

“Less.”

* * *

They bicker over the hacker, just like old days.

Eventually Andrew comes home from a supply run to find a woman in a gold lamé crop top sprawled on his couch, deeply engrossed in her laptop, with Neil hovering smugly nearby.

“And who’s this?”

“Shh,” Neil whispers. “She’s in.”

“In where?”

“The Met’s security cameras.”

“She’s in the Met?” Andrew asks, slightly incredulously.

Neil nods.

“Dan’s one of the best hackers on the East Coast.”

The woman looks up. She has short, sensible hair tucked under a beanie, wide brown eyes and a rhinestone bellybutton piercing. She looks like she could crush a man with her thighs, and Andrew makes a mental note not to cross her.

“You know your footprint is a disaster, right?”

“Footprint?” Andrew echoes.

“My little sister could hack you,” Dan scoffs. “It’s that easy.”

Andrew crosses his arms.

“I have a guy, Roland—”

Dan clicks something on her laptop and all the lights turn off at once.

“—who’s fired,” Andrew continues, cursing his weakness for pretty boys in mesh and eyeliner who make him promises they can’t keep.

* * *

“Are you going to tell me who we’re meeting?” Kayleigh demands for the third time. “Is it Allison Reynolds?”

“No,” Neil says, peering out of the taxi at the sun-dappled street. “Someone even more famous. A rival of Allison’s, so to speak.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Have coffee with her,” Neil says. “Play it cool.”

“Be aloof,” Andrew adds. “Not too nice.”

“Still friendly, though,” Neil advises.

“But not too friendly,” Andrew objects.

“Admire her tattoo,” Neil instructs. “Make physical contact. That’s when we’ll get it.”

“Get what?”

“We’re here,” Andrew announces. They usher Kayleigh out of the taxi and into the café, then take up post nearby, phones at the ready. Leverett arrives and slides into the seat opposite Kayleigh, gushing about the feline rescue project that Kayleigh so generously donated to. Kayleigh bumbles through the conversation with the awkwardness of a newborn foal, but she does lean in to look at Leverett’s new tattoo as instructed, and Neil and Andrew both snap a few pictures.

“This one,” Neil decides, grabbing Andrew’s phone out of his hand and sending it off.

No sooner than a day later, the snapshot appears in several gossip rags, complete with headlines heavily insinuating that Leverett is courting Kayleigh Day as her designer for the Met gala. Just as predicted, Allison Reynolds’ assistant requests a meeting with Kayleigh the very same day.

“Don’t fawn,” Neil coaches Kayleigh at the restaurant where they’re scheduled to meet for lunch. “Indifference, it’s an aphrodisiac.”

“Very little eye contact,” Andrew adds.

Kayleigh nods and pats her hair. Andrew and Neil leave her in the booth and go outside, standing sentinel by one of the windows where they can see what’s going on. Allison arrives in a flurry of silk and fur, throws herself down into her seat and immediately starts talking, hands flying to illustrate wayward points. Kayleigh looks a bit lost and Neil clicks his tongue.

“Too much eye contact. She needs to look less interested.”

He pulls out two soap bubble guns and hands one to Andrew.

“Is this a euphemism?” Andrew asks, amused. “If you wanted me to blow you, all you had to do was ask.”

Neil grins.

“Distract her,” he says. “Right now, I need this plan to not blow up in our faces just because Kayleigh can’t act for shit.”

* * *

“You’ll see,” Andrew assures him as they walk along the edge of the park. “This girl has some of the best hands I’ve ever seen.”

“Hmm,” Neil hums. “I remember you saying that about my hands back in the day, when I—”

“This way,” Andrew says, pushing him left towards a gaggle of tourists and a few vendors. He points out a small Korean girl with the face of an angel and the wiry build of an artiste who is in the process of cleaning out a clueless tourist at three-card Monte.

“Is she sane?” Neil mutters.

“Debatable.”

“Is she our only choice?”

The girl and her mark get up and she slaps his back, telling him he’s a good sport for losing and to come by again some time. She easily lifts his watch and wallet in the process, like she could do it in her sleep, and Neil whistles lowly.

“Not bad.”

“Neil, Renee,” Andrew introduces her once they’ve managed to catch up to her.

Renee eyes Neil up warily, then smirks at Andrew.

“You’re so predictable,” she tells him.

“Shut up.”

They go to a Subways just outside the skate park and Andrew lets Neil fill her in on the way.

“So. I’m lifting one necklace,” Renee sums up as she’s choosing her sandwich fixings.

“It’s a nice necklace,” Neil says.

“And this is legit?” she asks Andrew, sliding her tray down the line. Andrew nods. “Okay, I’m in.”

“That was easy,” Neil mumbles, bemused. Renee grabs her tray and makes a beeline for the nearest table, but Andrew stops her with a tap on the shoulder.

“Can I get my watch back?”

She sighs mournfully and hands it over.

“You used to be so easy to pickpocket.”

“And his as well,” Andrew says, motioning at Neil. Renee glares at him for ruining her fun, but there’s a fond glimmer in her eyes as well. She tosses Neil’s watch at him and Neil catches it, lips twitching.

“I can see why you like her,” he mouths at Andrew. “She’s in.”

* * *

“This one?” Andrew says, sliding a file over to Neil. The table is littered with papers and empty takeaway boxes. Neil takes a swig of Andrew’s beer and pulls a face, moving the bottle out of his immediate grabbing range before picking up the file.

“Oh, it’s a him.”

“What’s wrong with a him?” Andrew asks.

“A him gets noticed, a her gets ignored,” Neil recites one of his mother’s favourite mantras. Andrew sometimes wonders how she reacted when Neil first told her that he was a boy—Neil still maintains that growing up as a girl was the biggest con he ever pulled, but he never really talks about coming out to his family. Stuart is the only Hatford he still talks to these days, and they don’t mention his father’s side of the family, ever.

“What about Aaron?” Neil says abruptly.

“Oh, fucking no. No way,” Andrew says. “I thought you wanted a her.”

“Yeah, but,” Neil hums. “He’s good, for a him. And he won’t try to screw us over.”

“No,” Andrew says, as firmly as he can.

Neil makes a non-committal noise, and Andrew knows that he’s lost the argument before it’s even begun. He leans back in his seat with an exasperated sigh.

“Why did you make me go through all these files if you were planning on using him all along?”

Neil’s mouth pulls into a smidge of a grin, revealing one of his beautifully pointed canines.

“Had to work you up to it, didn’t I? Come on, taxi’s waiting outside.”

* * *

Andrew doesn’t call Aaron until he’s outside his house.

It’s a perfectly respectable house, white walls and a freshly painted front door, quaint little garden, basketball hoop and a trampoline for the kids. There’s even a small yappy dog just waiting to run out and pee on Andrew’s shoes in sheer excitement at the fact that he exists.

“Andrew?”

Aaron’s voice has a slightly frantic edge to it. Andrew can hear the whirr of a mixer in the background and the voices of the twins arguing again, overlaid with increasingly loud barks.

“I’m outside,” Andrew tells him. “Meet me in the garage.”

The garage is, quite frankly, a thing to behold. It’s filled with rows upon rows of shelves, bearing everything from washing machines to jumbo packs of lollipops. Andrew tears one open and grabs a handful, unwrapping a red one and sticking it into his mouth. Aaron comes skidding through a door in his socks, looking harried.

“Andrew, I told you, you can’t just show up unannounced—”

“What’s all this?” Andrew says idly. “I thought you retired.”

“I did, but—”

“So these are all for personal use?”

“What do you want?” Aaron huffs.

“Can’t I say hi? Visit my nieces, reconnect with my dear brother?” Andrew says, smiling blandly. “You’re not bored out here, are you? Playing the dutiful house husband and father?”

“I love my kids,” Aaron says defiantly, crossing his arms. “And my wife.”

Andrew chews on the thin lollipop until it splinters apart under his teeth. He knows Aaron does—the trouble is, he also loves this; rows upon rows of stuff, gleaming new, caught between one life and the next, just waiting to find new homes.

“I need a fence,” Andrew tells him, trailing a hand along a boxed-up television set.

“No,” Aaron says.

“Don’t you want to know how big the job is?” Andrew asks.

“No,” Aaron repeats, though he sounds less sure.

“I’m gonna tell you,” Andrew says, leaning in to whisper in Aaron’s ear. He smells like his horrible kale and wheatgrass smoothies and there’s a smudge of applesauce on his collar. Somewhere in the house, a baby starts crying.

“The fuck,” Aaron says.

The door opens. Aaron quickly shoves Andrew out of sight.

“Dada! Annie pulled my hair again!” Louise wails. The baby is still crying, and Aaron takes a fortifying breath.

“I’ll be right there, sweetie! Just one moment!”

He turns back to glare at Andrew, who shrugs.

“Just out of curiosity, how do you explain all this to Katelyn?” he asks, gesturing at the shelves.

Aaron deflates.

“Ebay,” he says.

* * *

Neil moves them all into the warehouse. There are enough rooms for everyone, but it’s still a lot noisier and more crowded than Andrew is used to. The first night, Neil orders enough food for twenty people and plies Andrew with chocolate cake and whipped cream until he’s so full he can barely move. Defenceless, he watches as they all gather around his coffee table and Neil whips out his powerpoint slides and the laser pointer they bought when they still thought about adopting a few cats from the shelter.

Andrew sinks back into his armchair and snags the pointer as soon as Neil is distracted. He entertains himself by tracing laser dicks on the wall for a while, then simply opts for watching Neil instead; the way his eyes are simmering with determination, the delicate twitch of his fingers, the confident jut of his shoulders.

Not for the first time he imagines what lies Neil must have fed the parole officers—probably something about craving a simple life—and suppresses a laugh.

“Sixteen point five million dollars, for each of us, in just five weeks’ time,” Neil is saying. “In three and a half weeks, the Met is hosting its annual ball celebrating the new costume exhibit. We are going to rob it. Not the ball itself, but a very important set of diamonds that will be attending the ball on the neck of Allison Reynolds, who Kayleigh will be dressing.”

He looks around for his pointer and Andrew clicks it, making the next slide appear.

“The Toussaint?” Alvarez says, peering at the picture of the necklace.

“Yes, very good,” Neil says. “We can get the necklace out of the vault with Allison’s unwitting help, hack the Met security system thanks to Dan, infiltrate the gala and leave with a hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth of diamonds fashioned into smaller pieces by Alvarez.”

“It’s only one of the most exclusive parties in America,” Aaron pipes up sarcastically. “No big deal.”

“Yes,” Neil says, amused. “Which is why you have a job interview with Vogue tomorrow morning at eight.”

He turns back to the group.

“Go home, get your affairs in order,” Neil tells them. “Tomorrow we will start pulling off one of the biggest jewellery heists in history.”

* * *

There is no shortage of work in the upcoming weeks.

Renee builds a cardboard model of the museum and learns every nook and cranny by heart. Aaron gets his fingers on a 3D printer that will print a zirconium replica of the Toussaint. He demonstrates its prowess by having it make a perfect, small-scale model of Michelangelo’s naked David sculpture.

“I like it,” Andrew says, peering at its incredibly detailed crotch.

“Of course you do,” Aaron snorts. “Stop fondling the man, I’m not done yet.”

He shows them a pair of glasses for Kayleigh that will scan the real necklace and send a digital print back to make the replica. They send Alvarez with her to Cartier to look at the necklace and negotiate its venture out into the real world. Cartier’s representative is reluctant, until Kayleigh surprises everyone with an impassioned speech in perfect French—something about Cartier being the most significant house in the world but people still mispronouncing its name—and they are finally led down into the vault.

Neil leans expectantly toward the computer screen. For the longest moment, nothing happens.

“No signal,” Dan says.

“Fuck,” Neil hisses, releasing a breath. “Come on, Kayleigh… use your brain…”

It’s Alvarez who finally comes up with a solution on the spot, reminding Kayleigh that she wanted to see the necklace in the daylight.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I must have the sun,” Kayleigh insists once it clicks.

“She must have the sun,” Alvarez parrots dutifully, and so up they go.

Neil grins as the necklace slowly takes shape on the screen, and Andrew can’t help but think that he’s more captivating than the six pounds of diamonds in front of them.

Once they have the scan, Kayleigh gets to work designing the dress. Neil sends anyone who doesn’t have a job to the Met for more reconnaissance and creates a minor uproar by hanging a fake painting in the gallery in broad daylight. The press blames Banksy, and Dan sneaks into the Met’s security firm posing as a cleaning lady and plants a bug on a trash can to listen in on their emergency meeting.

Satisfied, Neil gathers his flock around him with the lure of pizza and wine to explain the next steps.

“The stunt with the fake painting has prompted them to make changes to their security system, so now we can go in and make our own changes without being detected,” he says. “Show them the blind spot, Dan.”

She pulls up a view from one of the security cameras, showing part of an empty corridor inside the gallery.

“New York state law allows no cameras in public bathrooms,” Andrew says. “Which is fortunate for us, because we need to get the Toussaint out undetected. They’ll be going over their security camera footage with a fine tooth comb once they realise it’s missing, and anyone exiting the bathroom where we steal it is going to be a suspect.”

“So we need a blind spot, and a mule,” Neil says. “Renee, how much space do you need to plant it on someone unseen?”

“Hmm,” Renee makes, picking daintily at a slice of pizza. “I’d say about nine feet.”

Neil turns to Dan.

“How much time do you need to create a blind spot of nine feet outside that bathroom?”

“Ten to twelve days,” Dan says confidently. “I just have to move the camera bit by bit. Easy.”

Andrew hangs back to watch her hack one of McCallister’s computers by targeting one of their employees. She browses his Facebook account and creates an ad tailored to his interest in dogs, lacing it with a virus of her own making. It’s almost too easy, Andrew thinks. Dan sees him looking and leans back in her chair, smugly crossing her arms behind her head.

“She’s scarily efficient,” Neil whispers, making Andrew jump. It’s been years since Neil has been able to successfully sneak up on him, but occasionally he still catches him out.

“You wouldn’t have hired her otherwise,” Andrew points out grumpily.

“Yeah,” Neil says. “I barely know anything about her. I think she has a boyfriend, Mark? Matt? That’s about it. Trying to talk to her about her private life is like pulling teeth.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Dan calls over.

“Fuck,” Neil hisses, scurrying off.

Aaron gets himself hired off the bat for a miraculously vacant Met gala staff position with Vogue. He plants a few more people on the guest list, gets Andrew a last minute job as a nutritionist for the caterers and sends back a snapshot of the seating arrangement for the pre-gala dinner.

“Oh my god, Leo DiCaprio?” Alvarez croons. “He was my lesbian awakening.”

“How did that work?” Dan asks, amused.

Andrew doesn’t hear Alvarez’ explanation over the rising chatter. Neil comes over to see what the commotion is about, freshly showered and still a little damp around the neck, hair an artful mound of curls on his head. Renee nudges Andrew’s foot with hers and he glares at her, but she just gazes at the seating arrangement with an innocent smile.

“Could it be any more white?” Dan scoffs.

“Nope,” Neil says.

“Can’t we just go to this thing without stealing anything?” Alvarez sighs dreamily.

“Now, where’s the fun in that?” Neil laughs, snapping the laptop shut. “Come on, we have work to do.”

* * *

The night of the Chairman’s pre-gala dinner, Andrew comes back late from the club. They don’t strictly need him there, but it’s been a while since he checked in on his Twilight crew and it’s been making him feel off-balance. Nobody needed him earlier tonight, so he slipped away for a couple of hours, letting the familiar, heady cocktail of music and lights and anonymous bodies white-out his thoughts.

The warehouse is mostly dark when he lets himself in. There’s one last light on in the kitchen, low voices trickling out like gritty coffee through a filter. Dan and Neil, by the sounds of it. Andrew doesn’t feel like talking to anyone, so he makes his way quietly into the main living area, yawning and picking up discarded debris on the way.

“So, how did you end up with Day and Moriyama?”

He stops, arms full of takeaway boxes and empty bottles.

“Andrew and I were going through a rough patch and I really wanted a big score of my own, I guess,” Neil says. He sounds muted, like soda gone flat. “We used to rig bingo and run cheap cons at roulette. Kevin was an art dealer, kind of a big name in the business. He made it sound so easy, so glamorous. Whenever someone was interested in a piece, I’d pose as a buyer and drive up the price. Riko owned several galleries in town. One day they asked me to pose as the seller instead, made me sign a bunch of papers, then we got busted. Riko got Kevin out by pinning it all on me.”

“Right,” Dan says. “So, let me get this straight. You want revenge on Riko. Kevin sits next to Allison at the dinner. They start talking, and she invites him to the ball as her date. How is that gonna help you frame Riko?”

“Easy,” Neil says. “Where Kevin goes, Riko goes.”

Andrew doesn’t wait to hear the rest. He drops his armful of stuff on the nearest surface and walks out, still in his club clothes, even though all he wants is a shower and to sleep.

He doesn’t make a sound, but somehow Neil still knows he’s there the moment he moves.

“Andrew!”

His voice is clear and even, but there’s a shiver of urgency to it. Andrew keeps walking. Closes the door behind him and makes for his bike, the engine probably still warm from the drive over. He hears the sound of bare feet running after him, then Neil is there, cutting off his path.

“Andrew…”

“Don’t,” Andrew snaps. “You said no more lies. You said you were going to tell me everything, every single step of the plan.”

“I did,” Neil says. “I just… this isn’t what you think, Andrew.”

“I’m not a croupier or a tourist,” Andrew hisses. “Don’t try to con me. You don’t run a job in a job. Ever.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Neil tries. “I—”

“We are going to get caught,” Andrew cuts him off. “Why do you always do this, why does there always have to be an asterisk? Why can’t you just follow the plan?”

“He sent me to jail,” Neil says, voice breaking a little. “He tried to have me put in a women’s prison.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna do it again if you go through with this,” Andrew says. “And I’ll be fucked, _again_ , just because you always think you’re smarter than everyone else.”

“Trust me,” Neil pleads. His eyes glitter in the moonlight. Andrew can’t tell if the rushing in his ears is the distant noise of traffic or the raging of his own blood.

“How can I trust you?” he says. “All you do is lie. Even to me.”

“I lie because it’s my job—”

“No, it’s your job because you’re a liar,” Andrew says.

“No, Andrew,” Neil moans. “I need you. I promise I won’t leave again. What can I do to make you believe me?”

Andrew’s mouth is poised on the “Nothing” like a rubber band stretched to its limits, but he doesn’t let go. Slowly, he pulls the word back, bends and snaps it into a different shape.

“Call off the heist.”

Neil stares at him blankly. Andrew can see the exact moment it hits him—he knows all of Neil’s tells, just as Neil always knows his.

“No,” Neil whispers. “Don’t… I can’t…”

“Then I’m out,” Andrew tells him and turns.

This time, Neil lets him walk away.

* * *

Message from unknown number:

_I can’t do this without you_

Message from unknown number:

_Don’t leave_

Message from unknown number:

_It’s off. come back home_

Andrew pries himself out of the depths of Nicky’s sofa and stretches, spine popping painfully into place. Nicky places a steaming cup of coffee on the table for him and sits cross-legged on the floor, tucking a weak smile between the thin slices of morning light that layer the room.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, sipping at his cappuccino. Andrew warms his hands on his mug and scrunches his eyes shut. The damn sofa is too fucking soft. He has a crick in his neck and a headache from sleeping on it.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Go back to him, I guess.”

Nicky’s eyes turn soft, like mushy pears. Andrew can’t stomach it and looks away.

“You don’t have to, you know that, right?”

“I know,” Andrew sighs. “That’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” Nicky says, shaking his head. “I don’t understand a lot of things about you two, but… I know you need him, and he needs you.”

Andrew gulps down his coffee instead of replying. Nicky’s husband pads through, humming under his breath. He’s a tall, white man in his late thirties, blond, buff and scruffy; everything Nicky isn’t. They’re a good match.

“Eggs?” he offers, leaning back out of the kitchen doorway.

“You’re a hero,” Nicky sighs. “Can you put more coffee on as well?”

Erik disappears. The radio cuts on and the coffee machine burbles to life amid the good-natured clatter of bowls and pans.

Andrew is never going to have that sort of life. It’s okay, he’s made peace with that at age thirteen.

Still. He thinks of dodgy Chinese takeaway, late nights spent scheming, Neil sticking his ice-cold feet between Andrew’s thighs in bed at night to warm them up.

“I’m gonna go,” he says. Gets up. The room spins for a moment, then stills.

“Sure you don’t want to stay for breakfast?” Nicky asks.

“No,” Andrew says, “yeah. I need to…”

Nicky nods and lets him go, though not without forcing a travel mug of hot coffee on him first.

* * *

The warehouse is deserted.

For a moment Andrew thinks everyone is hiding, waiting for the right moment to jump out at him and shout, “Just kidding!” But nothing happens. All of their equipment is packed up and gone, even the trash has been taken out. He peers into the downstairs bathroom and finds it scrubbed and polished. The jenga tower of pizza cartons by the sink has disappeared, and when Andrew walks past the only potted plant he owns the soil looks suspiciously damp like someone’s recently watered it.

There’s a small splashing sound from upstairs. Andrew leaves his shoes and jacket behind and walks up the staircase, following a soft cough and another splash. The bathroom door is ajar, a smudged trail of tea candles beckons Andrew inside.

“You can come in,” Neil calls.

Slowly, Andrew steps through the gap. Neil is in the bath, thick foam to his ears, hair sticking up in all directions. He looks tired, wary. Andrew leans against the counter and waits.

“I sent them home,” Neil says dully. “No more heist. Kayleigh is still going to finish the dress and we thought it would look suspicious if they all quit their jobs at the same time, but maybe we can have an outbreak of measles or something—”

“Shut up,” Andrew cuts him off. “Just for once, can we not talk about work?”

The silence is sharp in Andrew’s ears. Neil looks at him with bruised eyes and nods.

“Alright. What do you want to talk about?”

He sits up, foam sluicing off his shoulders. Andrew can see the two even scars on his chest—they’d paid for the operation with the money from their first big con. He remembers Neil in their getaway car, happy and triumphant, talking a mile a minute and speeding down the road at night with no one else around, headlights like gold coins, the rich bass of the music on the radio and Neil, Neil, Neil, singing along and pulling him into a kiss the minute they stopped the car. He remembers Neil after the hospital, camped out on the couch in a loose t-shirt, tired and in pain, barely able to move but smiling at Andrew like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Andrew doesn’t regret it. Not the good times, not the bad times, not the in-between times. If he could go back to being nineteen, rundown and dumb, that moment when Neil first came up to him in the parking lot behind Sweetie’s with his crappy cigarettes and his rhinestone smile and a hundred shambolic plans to get rich and fuck off into the sunset together-

He’d do it all over again.

The thought makes his heart race, and he waits carefully for the flush of it to pass.

“You,” he says at last, “us. What you want for dinner. The fact that you stole my favourite leather jacket. Adopting a cat. Adopting two cats. Prison.”

Neil presses his lips together and sorts through the foam like he’s looking for something. An answer, maybe. Or perhaps a question.

“It was,” he starts, stops. “Not. Good. But it could have been worse, I suppose. Riko pulled some strings and I got dumped in a women’s facility at first. There was this doctor, Abby. She agreed to keep me on T. Eventually they ended up moving me after all, but it took ages. I worked out arrangements with some of the guards and did some trading, worked on my plan…”

He shrugs, but he still looks small and grey. Andrew pushes off the counter and sits down on the plush bathmat in front of the tub, trailing his fingers through the frothy water. Neil catches them and links them with his own.

“What, no illicit prison romance?” Andrew jokes.

“No,” Neil says earnestly. “There’s only ever been you, Andrew.”

And—Andrew knows that. He does.

He breathes out slowly.

“Tell me about Riko,” he says.

* * *

It takes less than an hour to reassemble everyone at the warehouse. Aaron grumbles as he carries his stuff back in, Dan shoots them curious looks, and Renee reverse-pickpockets Andrew in a moment of inattention and slips him a chocolate bar that Andrew promptly sits on.

Neil keeps looking at him with that warm, buttery fondness spilling from his eyes. Andrew escapes to the upstairs bathroom to shower off the dregs of last night and changes into the only clean clothes he finds lying around, which turn out to be Neil’s discarded skinny jeans and a t-shirt that’s far too tight on him. Neil’s eyes are back on him the moment he comes downstairs, tracking him across the room.

“Staring,” Andrew tells him. Neil hums appreciatively and winks.

“I’ve still got a strap-on with your name on it.”

“What do you need a strap-on for?” Alvarez asks, on her way past with her toolkit and several boxes of doughnuts.

Neil raises an eyebrow at her and calmly stares her down.

“Back to work, both of you,” Andrew grumbles, snagging a box of doughnuts before anyone can stop him. “We’re already behind schedule.”

“And whose fault is that?” Alvarez mutters, rolling her eyes.

Andrew throws himself into the work, determined to catch up on the time they lost, and everything blurs together into a colourful haze over the next couple of days. Cartier hires a security escort for the necklace. Kayleigh nearly has a nervous breakdown over the dress. Allison nearly has a nervous breakdown over the dress. Dan and Renee introduce Alvarez to Tinder, which is perhaps the most concerning of all—Andrew just hears Dan say, “Now send her the raindrops emoji,” and walks backwards out of that conversation.

Allison does one last interview before the gala, walking through the crown jewel exhibit and teasing her audience with hints about the Toussaint like it’s a particularly sexy piece of lingerie. Andrew sidesteps the pink gown Kayleigh has crafted and the hazardous explosion of fabric scraps, pins, thread and sequins over every available surface and goes out to pick up everyone else’s outfits for the night.

“Something red,” Neil absently reminds him, flitting past with his hands full of blueprints. He does this sometimes—tells Andrew what to wear so that they’ll match. The times when Andrew picked out Neil’s outfits are long past them, but Andrew still likes to put his own spin on Neil’s instructions, and he has some vague ideas for things he can do with the colour red.

The day of the gala boasts clear blue skies and a cool breeze. The Toussaint is finally released from its underground vault and transported to the hotel where Allison is staying. Kayleigh is already with her, helping her get dressed and obsessing over last-minute alterations to the dress. Andrew is busy from the moment he gets up, but Neil’s emphatic, “Fuck,” still draws him to where some of the others are clustered around Dan’s laptop.

They’re watching a short clip filmed on Kayleigh’s phone. It shows one of the security guards opening the necklace with a special device, explaining about the magnetic clasp.

“What now?” Renee asks mildly. “Even my fingers can’t undo that.”

“Hang on,” Dan says. “I’m gonna call in reinforcements.”

Andrew shoots Neil a look—more people means less money in the long run—but the person Dan calls has the voice of a teenager and greets her as Danielle.

“Danielle?” Andrew mouths at her. She ignores him and explains their problem. The girl—Dan’s younger sister—isn’t fazed.

“Poly-magnets and a spring, attraction and repulsion on the same axis, they’re drawn together but don’t touch until you rotate it and then they lock. It’s real dope,” she says. “I’ll go get you a positive and a negative pole in a loop and that ought to do the trick.”

Neil relaxes a fraction.

“Danielle?” Andrew asks again.

“If you ever call me that, you’re dead,” Dan says.

Andrew believes her.

Soon enough, Neil piles them all into the van for a sound check. They meet Dan’s sister on the way to pick up the unclasping device. She’s a little slip of a girl with a missing front tooth and braids down to her elbows, and Dan snags her into a one-armed hug.

“Tight. I owe you, little shit.”

“Just get me a new ID,” the girl grins.

One by one, they all get into position. Andrew and Dan switch to a food van parked near the venue, Aaron joins the gala staff for briefing, Alvarez takes up post in the kitchen and Renee with the wait staff. Neil gets changed in a public bathroom and treats them all to a classic Neil Josten pep talk, and Andrew feels an uncomfortably warm patch of nostalgia inside him that spreads, like pissing in a swimming pool.

“No need to be nervous, the food is better than you think and solitary can be peaceful,” Neil says. “Anyway, I just wanna say thank you. You’ve all been amazing. Whatever happens tonight, remember: you are not doing this for me, you are not doing this for you. Somewhere out there is an eight-year-old kid lying in bed dreaming of being a criminal. Let’s do this for them.”

“Nerd,” Andrew tells him fondly.

“You like it,” Neil shoots back, earning Andrew an amused glance from Dan.

“Let’s go, Foxes!” Alvarez pipes up.

“Foxes?” Dan asks.

“We needed a name,” Alvarez says sheepishly. “And foxes are scavengers. They live on the outskirts of human society. And they’re really smart.”

“I like it,” Neil hums. “Let’s go, Foxes!”

* * *

Andrew watches the live feed of the red carpet on Dan’s laptop. Allison and Kayleigh arrive and get bumped from camera to camera, with Kevin sandwiched between them. Riko trails behind them with a sour look on his face that only clears up when he gets hailed down for an interview. Andrew spots Neil somewhere further down the line, speaking fluent German with some blond model, telling the woman with the guest list the German alias he’s listed under. He looks good in a charcoal suit and a simple red cape draped over one shoulder, opulent and understated at the same time. All he needs is a lopsided crown and he’d be king, Andrew thinks.

Slowly everyone files into the dining hall, which is decked out in Baroque finery. Staff in black and white flit through the glittery guests, serving drinks. Aaron is surveying the room with a serious expression and Allison is taking her seat with her entourage.

“Time to go,” Dan tells Andrew. Someone knocks on the window of the van and Andrew points at the sign that says ‘closed’, but they cajole and annoy until Andrew relents and makes them two hotdogs just to get rid of them.

“Cute,” Dan grins.

Andrew rolls his eyes and puts on his uniform cap, and Dan grins even wider. She’s going to change into her dress once Andrew leaves, a silky gold sheath with a sinfully long slit down the side currently hanging from the ceiling of the van so it won’t crease. She loves it, even if she won’t say so out loud.

The night air is cool and charged with something like electricity. Andrew enters the museum through the staff entrance and walks bluntly into the kitchen, slathering his hands with hand sanitiser and getting to work.

“Okay, we’re a go,” Aaron’s voice comes through his earpiece.

“Where’s the vegan soup for table four?” Andrew asks. It’s a creamy pumpkin soup with gleaming dots of pumpkin seed oil, and Andrew takes out the little dropper from his pocket containing Neil’s special seasoning. He squeezes a few drops onto the patches of pumpkin seed oil and brusquely sends the nearest waiter out with the plate.

“She’s in deep,” comes Aaron’s low voice a few minutes later.

“She hasn’t eaten in three days,” Neil replies wryly. “Never thought I’d thank the diet industry for anything, but there’s a first time for everything I guess.”

Their plan works almost too smoothly. Allison is rushing to the nearest bathroom in no time—the one with the blind spot Dan crafted, where Renee is already in place to help and comfort as Allison pukes her guts out.

Neil, who has been casually hanging out in full view of the cameras all evening, sipping at his champagne glass and fiddling with his watch strap, stops Allison’s security escort from going in after her with a leery comment about it being a women’s bathroom.

“Aaron, now,” Neil murmurs.

Andrew can see it all in his head: Aaron sending a busboy into the kitchen with a cart full of dishes and Neil neatly stepping into his path, sending him careening sideways into the blind spot with his tray. Renee deposits the necklace on a plate before slipping into the men’s room, staying just outside the cameras’ range the entire time.

Andrew counts down the seconds in his head.

“Still not here,” he mutters when there’s no sign of the busboy.

“Aaron,” Neil snaps.

“On it,” Aaron says. He rudely ousts the boy from a corridor where he was chatting with a colleague, and then Alvarez is there, taking the tray from him and plunging the dishes into the sink at once. Andrew doesn’t watch, but he assumes she’s got the necklace as she shakily calls out, “Bathroom break!” and locks herself in the staff toilet to get to work taking the necklace apart.

Allison must have made it out of the bathroom by then, because security soon starts clearing the entire floor to search for the missing necklace. Andrew calmly goes through the checkpoint and lets himself be scanned. He had a lot of time to prepare for the cursory patting down, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. Outside, the venue is in a state of controlled mayhem, with press and police closing in on the building like circling vultures and the guests all crowded into the foyer, while Alvarez is still working on the jewellery.

It’s easy to make a quick detour to the exhibit room, where a little toy boat bobs on the water of the moat that separates the crown jewels from the viewers. Andrew fishes it out and dimly hears Neil arguing with a guard outside, then Dan’s hushed voice in his earpiece.

“Guy in the kitchen,” Dan warns them. “Uh-oh, he’s coming closer…”

“One more minute,” Alvarez hisses.

“Andrew?” Aaron asks.

“All done,” Andrew says, casting one last look over the exhibit.

“Aaron,” Dan snaps. “Get it out. Now!”

Aaron miraculously pulls the fake necklace out of the fountain in the dining hall. Andrew uses the ensuing commotion to slip back into the crowd and into the nearest staff bathroom to get changed—his job is done, all he has to do now is pick up his share of the jewels and get out. Renee flits past him like a shadow, leaving a set of diamond cufflinks in his pocket. They catch the light as he puts them on.

Slowly, Andrew meanders to one of the exits. He catches a glimpse of Neil, bumping into someone at the bar—

Riko turns, confused, but Neil is already gone.

Andrew shakes his head and drifts outside. The sky is speckled with stars, the front of the building is lit up in swathes of light. His pulse is thrumming under his skin and he feels dizzy for a moment, like leaning out over the railing of a balcony on the tenth floor.

He gets his bike, parked in an alley nearby, and drives around the building to pick up the only person he wants to share this moment with.

Andrew drinks him in as he comes closer, leaning against his bike and letting the breeze pick through his hair. His suit is simple and black, but tailored to perfection. True to Neil’s request he’s accentuated it with a pair of high heels, race car red and glossy in the dark. They pinch his toes, but it’s worth it for the sight of Neil’s face as he sees Andrew’s full outfit for the first time.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I said something red,” Neil says weakly, reaching out a hand and putting his thumb against Andrew’s bottom lip. It comes away tacky and stained with Andrew’s red lipstick, and Neil looks at it almost reverently. “You trying to throw me off my game?”

“I would never,” Andrew murmurs, kissing his thumb. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck, yes,” Neil sighs, leaning in for a proper kiss.

Andrew is pretty sure it smears his lipstick beyond saving, but Neil looks flushed and utterly pleased with himself when they break apart.

“Take me home,” he says.

So Andrew does.

* * *

“What’s happening next?” Kayleigh asks once they’ve all gathered at the warehouse late the next day, looking at pictures of the gala, listening to some of Andrew’s old records and passing around snacks.

“Cartier have realised by now that the necklace is a fake,” Neil says. “The insurance company has sent an investigator to look for fraud. They’re probably reviewing the security footage, going through the sewers, and talking to the busboy who was the only one in and out of the blind spot in the period where the necklace disappeared as far as they know. And, of course, Allison and Riko.”

“Why not Kevin?” Dan asks, rooting through a bowl of popcorn.

“Because I made sure Kevin stayed within sight of a security camera all night,” Neil says. “Whereas Riko…”

He waves his hand in a so-so motion. Kayleigh, who’d been briefed about Neil’s plans, still looks relieved that her son isn’t going to be an immediate suspect. Just as the conversation devolves into Dan and Renee teasing Alvarez about her new Tinder girlfriend, there’s a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” Renee asks, narrowing her eyes.

Andrew goes to open the door and nearly gets slammed into the wall by Allison Reynolds, sweeping into the building like a fallen queen with the ends of her black scarf fluttering dramatically in her wake.

“You’re all fucked,” she announces around her chewing gum and flings herself down onto the sofa next to Renee. The group is silent, and Allison rolls her eyes. “Oh, chilly. Hi Alli, welcome to the gang, let’s not all high five at once. BTW, thanks for saving our asses from insurance fraud.”

“What is she doing here?” Dan asks flatly. Andrew silently commends her for being the first to gather her wits.

“You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice that something was going on, did you?” Allison scoffs. “All this fuss about the necklace, and then that pert little investigator asking all sorts of questions.”

Aaron side-eyes Neil and clears his throat.

“That pert little investigator,” he says, “that wouldn’t happen to be my wife, would it?”

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t know a thing,” Neil says cheerfully. “We expected this, we prepared for it. None of us is going to be the prime suspect.”

“That’ll be Riko,” Andrew provides. “And with a little help from Allison…”

“No offense, but why exactly are you here?” Renee asks her, looking completely unapologetic about the fact that she was the one who stole the Toussaint from Allison’s very neck. In fact, now that Andrew thinks about it, Renee still seems suspiciously interested in that neck, despite the fact that it doesn’t hold any outrageously expensive jewels anymore.

Allison hesitates, then demurs: “I just… don’t have that many close friendships.”

“You’re becoming a criminal because you’re lonely?” Dan snorts.

“Better than a book club,” Allison sniffs. “Now, about that pissrat turdstain Moriyama…”

* * *

With Aaron’s and Bee’s help, they find a couple nice old ladies to auction off the pieces of the Toussaint for them. Andrew hears through the grapevine that Riko gets an unpleasant visit from Katelyn, and he gives her a friendly call and invites her to meet him for coffee.

“Katelyn,” he greets her, sprawled across his half of the bench with a glazed doughnut and a black coffee. He slides his sunglasses into his hair and grins up at her. “How are the kids?”

“Fine,” Katelyn says briskly. “With their grandparents. Any chance you know where my husband is?”

“Working, I assume.” Andrew shrugs. “Somewhere here in New York, last I heard? You’d know better than me.”

“Would I?” Katelyn mutters. She orders a black coffee and pinches her lips around the rim of the mug. “Don’t think I don’t know.”

“Know what?” Andrew hums, picking at his doughnut.

“The Toussaint,” Katelyn says. “Your boyfriend…”

“Didn’t do it.”

“No, he was just on camera ten feet away from where it disappeared. Sheer coincidence.”

“No,” Andrew says cheerfully, “a solid alibi.”

“Is it genetic?” Katelyn muses. “Are the whole family like this?”

“Mmh, except for his Aunt Ida,” Andrew retorts.

“Look,” Katelyn says, leaning forward on the table. “I just want the necklace. If you know something, spit it out and I’ll be on my way. You never want to meet me just to catch up, so we can stop playing pretend.”

“How about some of it?” Andrew asks, inspecting his nails.

“How much?”

“Hypothetically, ten percent.”

“Where’s the hypothetical rest?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew says, spreading his fingers in a helpless gesture. “Literally.”

“Keep talking,” Katelyn says. Andrew pulls out his phone and shows her a picture of Riko at the gala.

“So it’s revenge. He frames Neil, you frame him.”

Andrew shrugs demonstratively.

“All I know is that you might find part of that necklace in Riko’s cosy little studio downtown.”

“I’d need probable cause for a search warrant,” Katelyn says warily.

“Probable cause,” Andrew hums thoughtfully, tapping his finger against his mouth. “I think we can manage that.”

* * *

Allison bullies Kevin into sending her an official invite to an exclusive party at Riko’s studio. She takes Renee as her date, who finds herself quite unexpectedly popular with Riko’s bodyguard, Jean Moreau. Allison slips away on the pretence of powdering her nose while Jean is suitably distracted, plants some of the jewels in Riko’s closet and snaps a picture that counts as “probable cause” just fine. The next morning, Riko wakes up to a police escort and hears from his lawyers that the sweet old ladies who sold the rest of the pieces have all transferred the money into an account under the name of Moriyama Holdings LLC.

“The rest, as they say, is history. To Riko,” Neil declares, holding up a glass of something indecently fizzy and decadent. “For kindly and generously taking the fall for us.”

Kevin, who has trailed along to the gathering in his mother’s wake, untethered and flabbergasted at the new turn in his life, still looks like a lost puppy among sharks. Neil gently steers him over to the sofa and pushes a champagne flute filled with lemonade into his hand.

“Welcome to the rest of your life,” he says, patting Kevin’s cheek. He leaves him in the care of his mother and sidles back over to Andrew.

“But,” Allison says, frowning at her champagne, “what about the money? If you transferred it to Riko’s account…”

Neil glances conspiratorially at Andrew.

“You want to do the honours?” he murmurs. To Allison, he says: “You thought we were only going to steal one necklace?”

There’s a minor uproar. Andrew waits until it’s quieted down before continuing: “While everyone was watching the entrance during the lockdown, we picked up the crown jewels from the exhibit with the help of an old friend. Turns out there are more people out there who have a grudge against Riko Moriyama than just Neil and I.”

“Thea used to steal art for him,” Neil explains. “She’s an excellent climber. We merely had to suspend her from the metal grate that they used to hang the dresses from and make sure she didn’t get caught in any of the lasers or trigger an alarm.”

Andrew holds up a little toy boat.

“She replaced the jewels with the zirconium replicas, threw the real ones in the moat, I fished them out, we hid them, and Neil distracted anyone coming near the exhibit while Thea was robbing it blind by making a scene in German. As he does.”

“Which brings each of your cuts up to thirty-eight million and three thousand dollars,” Neil concludes. He holds up his glass. “To Riko Moriyama!”

* * *

“Kayleigh and Kevin?”

“Touring France in a houseboat while Kayleigh finishes her new collection. They’re going to look for Kevin’s father once they’re back in the US. And I hear Kevin adopted a stray.”

“A dog?”

“No,” Andrew says wryly. “Jean Moreau.”

“Hmm,” Neil hums, amused. “Go on. Dan?”

“Taking off with her IT start-up, getting married next month. She sent us an invitation, but I can’t decide if she really wants us to go or if it’s all a ploy to murder us and take our share of the money.”

Neil snorts and takes a sip of his wine, perching the glass precariously on the edge of the bathtub. Bubbles glitter in his hair and the light of the candles swishes across the tiles like bushy cats’ tails. Their actual cats—Bonnie and Clyde—are currently downstairs and may or may not be planning a heist of their own involving the cat treats in the topmost cupboard.

“Renee?”

“Donated her money to charity, Robin Hood style. Currently backpacking in New Zealand,” Andrew says, then adds: “With Allison.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. Alvarez opened her own store on Fifth avenue, Bee is—Bee, your prison doctor was notified of a generous anonymous donation to the medical ward, and last I heard from Thea is she bought a circus—”

“And your fourth and final niece is going to have a college fund that’s just as ridiculous as her siblings’,” Neil finishes, leaning his head back on the edge of the bathtub and sliding further into Andrew’s space.

“Oof,” Andrew says. “Your foot’s on my bladder.”

“Should’ve peed while you had the chance,” Neil grins. “We really should have stayed at hotels more. I missed bathtubs.”

“You said you wanted the authentic road trip experience,” Andrew points out. “And the motels weren’t that bad…”

“They were awful,” Neil groans and laughs.

“They were awful,” Andrew concedes. “Good thing we came back.”

“Mmm. Chinese for dinner?”

“I thought you wanted to cook.”

“Tomorrow,” Neil says quickly. “I meant tomorrow.”

“You’re losing your touch,” Andrew says, clicking his tongue and flicking water at him. Neil splashes some back and presses his foot down a little harder in retaliation.

“Once a liar, always a liar,” he says, then tosses something at him. It lands squarely in Andrew’s wine glass, clinking prettily.

“What’s that?”

Neil shrugs and leans back snugly, tilting his head back against the rim of the tub.

“Look, I’m not saying the real heist was your heart all along…”

Andrew peers into his wine glass, sees a tell-tale shimmer at the bottom.

“Fuck off,” he says.

Neil’s smile softens in the steam of the bath.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving kudos and/or a comment, or drop by [my Tumblr](https://annawrites.tumblr.com/) and say hello!
> 
> If you find yourself in the mood for more, you might also enjoy the actual Ocean's 8 fic I wrote: [Fool's Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417210) featuring Lou, Debbie and their post-movie roadtrip.
> 
> Alternatively, you could check out the brilliant Ocean's Eleven AU by gluupor with amazing art from ClockworkDragon: [A Thief and a Liar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713625) \- go on, you know you want to ;)


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